Porcelain
by Aki13th
Summary: There should have only been one set of footsteps roaming the Phantomhive halls at night.  However, a stray clock key changes things.  OC, no pairing.  Minor implied VincentOC.
1. Enter Marionette

**A possibly Sebastian/OC fragment. It has a much longer story behind it, but I probably won't continue it anytime soon, since I have other stories I need to finish. Maybe eventually. Let me know what you think.**

Given that night had fallen over the Phantomhive mansion hours upon hours ago, one would have assumed that no one should have been wandering the ornate halls. However, given the butler being no less than extraordinary in his dedication to his work, one's assumption could be altered to say that it was odd to have more than one set of footsteps echoing the varnished recesses of the home. But there they were: one sultry, quiet clack of men's heels and the light, measured tap of something like a moccasin, so soft against the floors that only the shifting of the wearer's weight was audible. Dust could be scented on the still air.

_Tap. Whirr. Tap. Whirr. Tap. Whirr. Tap._

Silence.

"Sebastian, what is this?"

The butler paused in arranging the tea platters to focus his eyes on the small brass object held up between his lord's fingers.

"It is a clock key, young master."

"I can see that for myself, Sebastian. What is it doing on top of my paperwork?"

Smiling at the first spat of the day, Sebastian placed a china cup before the haughty preadolescent as he explained.

"Earlier this morning, you ordered the servants, myself included, to clean out the basement. That key was one of the objects found which I was uncertain about throwing out. It does not belong to any of the clocks in the mansion, so I delivered it to you in case you knew what it belonged to."

"I don't recognize it," Ciel Phantomhive stated brusquely, eyeing the key as he would a rather nasty insect. "Perhaps it goes with something in the attic?"

"That may be the case. Would you like me to check?"

"Do you what you will," was the response, muffled from behind a teacup.

In the evening, the butler found the time to do just that, although not without the notice of three pairs of prying eyes. The other servants followed timidly behind as Sebastian ascended the ominous-looking steps to the attic. The room might have been fairly spacious had there not been clutter everywhere, boxes stacked on top of boxes along with other miscellaneous objects one may not have expected to find in a mansion. Finny sneezed, sending up a cloud of dust.

"Do you see anything requiring a clock key?" Sebastian inquired without truly expecting an answer, rifling carefully through the stacks.

"Not that I can see."

"Nothing over here!"

"Eek!"

Three head turned towards the yelp and the ensuing thud, and were not surprised to find Mey-Rin collapsed on the floor among a pile of books. Straightening hurriedly, she tried to hide her embarrassed blush as the men chided her. Halfway to her feet, however, she caught sight of something in the corner.

"What is that?"

After pushing aside a few more stacks of books, the group discovered what appeared at first glance to be a person. Upon closer inspection, however, Sebastian found that the dust-covered skin was only porcelain, molded into a feminine shape and dressed in an outfit similar to a maid's uniform, but more decorated and finely made, as befitting a life-size doll. Blank glass eyes stared out from behind silky bronze locks.

"Wow," was the first word to break the silence. "That thing scared me."

"Scared you, Baldo? But it's so pretty."

"I thought it was a dead body!" the chef defended.

Mey-Rin hesitantly reached out to touch the doll, peering at the arms, the face, shifting it to see behind it—and let out a cry of realization.

"Hey! There's a keyhole right here!"

Sure enough, in the left shoulder blade was a neat opening in the shape of a lock. Each servant automatically turned to Sebastian, who held out the clock key, inserted it—a perfect fit—and gave it several twists.

Nothing happened.

Sighing, the butler straightened up.

"That's enough dilly-dallying for one day. Back to work, everyone."

With disappointment evident on their faces, the other three filed out of the attic and down the stairs. Sebastian spared the doll a cold glance before closing the door behind him and walking out, leaving the clock key inside the keyhole.

That night, the second pair of footsteps appeared.

"My lord, it is time to wake up."

Ciel nuzzled deeper into the covers, still half-asleep.

"My lord. Please wake up, sir."

He again brushed off the voice before it slowly began to register that it was not his butler's.

"Lord Vincent."

His eyes snapped open. Jerking upright in bed, the young earl gaped in a rather undignified manner at the prim form standing ramrod straight just next to his bedroom door. Steel blue eyes, just a shade different from his own, stared sharply into his face; her taut expression seemed slightly hostile at first glance but was dampened by the respectful posture the young woman had assumed, hands folded in front of her and the heels of her black slippers pressed together to form a "v" shape. Speechless, Ciel opened and closed his mouth like a dying fish. This was dispassionately observed by the young woman before him.

"Lord Phantomhive, is such behavior not undignified?"

Ciel closed his mouth, self-conscious, and cleared his throat, leveling a suspicious glare on the woman.

"What did you call me?" he demanded calmly.

"Lord Phantomhive."

"No, before that."

"Lord Vincent, then."

Ciel Phantomhive went silent for a long moment.

"Who are you?"

One too-perfectly arched brow raised a hair's breadth before she replied, "I am your servant, Ainslee Oakheart, sir."

Ciel was unsure of what to say next, but was saved when his butler chose that moment to knock and open the door, pushing a breakfast cart. Sebastian's smile dimmed the moment he spotted the girl.

"Who are you?" This came not from Sebastian, but from the doll he was sure he had seen immobile up in the attic. Sending a questioning glance towards his employer, Sebastian replied, "I am Sebastian Michaelis, butler to the Phantomhive house."

"That is not possible. Mr. Tanaka is the Phantomhive butler."

Understanding was slowly beginning to creep into the two men's faces, followed by more questions.

"Lord Vincent? Is something the matter?" the doll inquired. Pausing, Ciel cleared his throat.

"Ainslee Oakheart, I believe you are mistaking me for my father. My name is Ciel Phantomhive, sole heir to the Phantomhive name."

Although her expression did not change, the doll seemed startled and confused. After a long silence, Sebastian stepped in.

"Miss Oakheart, are you aware that you are a doll?"

"That is correct. I am Lord Vincent Phantomhive's doll and servant. Where is he?"

"He is dead," Ciel replied immediately. "Both of my parents are dead."

"Who is your mother?"

"Rachel Durless."

"I see. Then my lord managed to acquire her hand after all." A somewhat detached smile spread over her lips. "If he is indeed gone, then I belong to her now."

"She is also dead."

The doll's smile vanished.

"Then to whom do I belong?"

"As Vincent Phantomhive's heir, most likely myself," Ciel answered wearily.

"I see." The faintest whirring of gears reached the butler's ears as the doll curtsied elaborately, although stiffly; she was like a porcelain ballet dancer. "I look forward to serving you, my lord."

Sebastian's maroon eyes caught sight of the clock key still sticking out of her shoulder blade. It was not turning, but it did not fall out when she moved, either. Later he would discover that in the evenings, when she wandered the halls of the mansion, it did turn; slowly, quietly, as her glassy blue eyes flickered in dreamlike fear.


	2. First Fracture

**CHange in plans. I can't write SebOC, so this will be a no-pairing fanfiction. I apologize if I disappointed anyone, but I have a definite storyline to follow now.**

Sebastian's sight was much sharper than most, and it came to his attention immediately when he encountered faint tracks of dust soiling the polished floors. Sighing, he followed their path to his master's office, picking up a feather duster on his way. It was with mild bemusement that he found the doll standing outside the double doors instead of next to them inside, but he could imagine what had transpired.

"Miss Oakheart, would you kindly come with me?" He motioned down the hall open-handed. Ainslee did not reply, simply staring at his with those never-focused glass eyes, but stepped forward from the wall and followed his lead out the back door. Armed with the feather duster, Sebastian batted and brushed the offensive remains of the attic from her.

"I see the young master removed you from his study," he remarked at length, a note of humor in his casual tone. "Did he not appreciate your company?"

"No. He said that he could not concentrate with someone else in the room," Ainslee responded plainly.

In truth, Ciel might have been able to focus on his work quite well with any guest as still and silent as she had been, but she herself was the problem. Although he was accustomed to his butler's unearthly beauty, and Ainslee was similar in that abnormal perfection, there was just something unnatural about the doll's face, her movements, and her silence—it was too obviously artificial, but realistic enough to be unsettling. Her eyes were a fraction too big and stared too keenly; her motions were simultaneously too smooth and too jerky; her hair and skin were just different enough in texture from the real thing to be noticeable. All in all, the doll's presence stirred discomfort in the pit of Ciel's stomach, knowing that a steel blue gaze was constantly upon him, passive and yet somehow expectant.

"There," Sebastian spoke up, straightening to give Ainslee a once-over. "Good as new. Frankly, I'm surprised you weren't damaged in the first place."

"Lord Vincent was very particular about my caretaking. He would not allow any sort of imperfection in his belongings or his work."

"I see," was the reply, and again it held that hidden laughter that danced behind his polite smile. It was gone before it could be interpreted. "Well, Miss Oakheart, as a member of the Phantomhive staff, I suppose it is fitting that you partake in the many tasks to be taken care of. Do you think you can make do with dusting?" He held out the feather-duster to her. The doll seemed mildly surprised, but she took it.

"I have not dusted before. I simply brush this around things?" she queried.

"That is the general idea."

"The entire mansion, correct?"

"Yes, besides the floors and walls."

With a faintly quizzical glance at the duster and a curt nod, the doll turned to do as she had been instructed. Sebastian paused momentarily to wonder if a doll could be any more incompetent than Mey-Rin before going about his business.

Ainslee found it strange. Not unnatural like Ciel found her, nor wrong, simply something she couldn't place that she had never encountered. Never before had she been asked to participate in the household chores, and as a doll her emotions were not nearly strong enough to bring about much reaction. This wasn't the only thing she found odd; Vincent Phantomhive had always regarded her warmly, requesting her company in his study as he filled out papers and occasionally glancing up to survey her prim form. His offspring had coldly turned her out, while his butler had given her a new duty. She almost wanted to say that she already had a duty, but could not divine what it was that duty had always been.

After checking for any mishaps, Sebastian had reminded her multiple times that the sides of the bookshelves did not need dusting and that it was necessary to move some objects to clean more thoroughly. She was improving slowly and did not forget each piece of advice her delivered, but lack of experience did its work to spoil hers, and Ainslee was asked to go back to several areas more than once. At some point, as Ciel was descending the grand staircase for a breath of fresh air, a crash was heard. He was on break anyway, so for some unfathomable reason the young earl chose not to spare himself the stress of seeing what was the matter. He turned into the parlor.

Fragments of cherry-colored china were scattered across the rug, sharp edges gleaming and sections of some sort of brush design mourning its worth. The doll was standing in front of the high shelf it had evidently fallen from.

"What happened?" Ciel inquired flatly, although he could already deduce that from the feather duster that looked out of place in her unnaturally smooth hand. She turned her face towards him and he blinked, startled at the prominent fracture forming a "y" from her lower eyelid down her cheek. The crack sent a thrill of something like relief through him, as though confirming that the doll was, indeed, fake.

"The vase fell and shattered on my face," Ainslee explained calmly, performing one of her extravagant curtsies. "Forgive my mistake, milord."

Ciel did not answer, still eyeing the hairline fissure disrupting the perfect smoothness of her artificial countenance. It was that moment that Sebastian appeared from behind him.

"Oh, dear. Miss Oakheart, please be careful with the high shelves. Things tend to fall off."

"Beg pardon."

"Young master, did you need something?"

Snapping out of his reverie, Ciel shook his head. "No. I was simply taking a break. As you were." He started to walk out, stopped, and called, "Sebastian."

The butler looked up from the scarlet mess.

"Yes?"

"If she cannot dust, have her clean floors or something of the sort."

The suggestion came out of the blue, seeing as the lord never bothered himself with such things, but the young lord's butler smiled.

"Yes, my lord."

Every servant was always present at lunchtime. Whether out of hope for scraps or simply because it had become customary to the Phantomhive household, there were always four cheerful faces around when their master sat down to eat and discuss business with Sebastian. Perhaps there was some invisible force that drew everyone there, because Ainslee Oakheart was among their numbers in the afternoon, the sun emphasizing the crack that ran down her cheek. A pair of bright turquoise eyes was immediately drawn to it.

"Miss Ainslee, what happened to your face? It's got an awful crack!" Finny fussed, worrying around the doll but hesitant to touch her; it was only to be expected that the gardener, maid, and cook were all shocked to find a previously inanimate object moving and talking by its own power.

"A vase fell on it," Ainslee responded calmly, her stillness in demeanor and movement emphasized even further by Finny's hyperactivity. "Please do not worry yourself, sir gardener."

"It's Finnian. Please call me Finny!"

"As you wish, sir Finny." This, with another elaborate curtsy. Mey Rin seemed rather entranced by the graceful, swooping movement and shuffled her feet a bit as though she wished to try it. Later on, in front of a mirror in her room, she would.

The awed expressions and wide eyes of the servants was something Ainslee was familiar with. While she was in Lord Vincent's service, the people who came and went from the manor would often be enraptured by her prim, carefully groomed beauty, and she was often one of the first topics of conversation as the earl led them to the parlor to talk business over tea. And, smiling like no one else could, he would thank her after the guest was gone for "being lovely again today." Ainslee had not seen Ciel Phantomhive's smile, but she presumed that it was not like her lord Vincent's. The one who _did_ have that smile, perhaps because they were closer in age, was the butler. That cool, rather calculated smile that felt like the warmth left behind after one leaves their chair; she had received that smile each day without fail, until it felt like a duty to be there to relieve the lord of it. The cool-warmth smile had always been there, even before—

Before?

There was no before. Only Lord Vincent Phantomhive _was_, and now Lord Ciel _was,_ and Ainslee _was_; therefore, she had a duty to what _was,_ and not what had been before, whether it _was_ or not.

The little lord that was had finished his meal and now stood, the rising action pushing his chair back so that her could step out of its embrace towards his ever-ready butler. A strange, bitter emotion was welling up faintly inside of her as Sebastian took his place at his master's side, but she discarded it. Her duty was to be there for the master when he required her.

That was all.


	3. Second Fracture

**I'm sorry it took so long for me to update. I kind of forgot about this story since I'm working on several others... -.-; Hope you enjoy this chapter.**

Today's task was polishing the floors. Sebastian had been extremely thorough in explaining to Ainslee exactly how to get the job done, including showing her each of the rooms and pointing out each of the floors' individual characteristics and how to properly deal with them. It was clear that he would have to compensate for the lost time, but it was easier to prepare her than to correct her mistakes later.

After receiving her instructions, Ainslee had glanced (somewhat inquiringly) down at her tools, curtsied, and gotten to work. About ten minutes into it, however, she paused and peered acutely at her fingers. The sheen on them was marred by countless tiny scratches and scuffs, the porcelain unaccustomed to being worn down by manual labor. Pensively returning the rag in her hand to its scrubbing motion on the floorboards, Ainslee wondered if Lord Ciel would have her fixed. For some reason she recalled that he had personally suggested that she scrub floors, but promptly brushed it aside; the young master's wishes were not to be questioned, only obeyed.

Ainslee looked at her fingers again.

"Crafted porcelain: twenty-one pounds," she said to no one in particular. No one in particular heard her or answered.

Ciel happened to pass by her later in the morning. Upon his entrance, the doll immediately flourished a curtsy and greeted him with, "Good morning, Lord Ciel." He grunted and went on his way. Each time he passed by, it was "Good morning, Lord Ciel," or "Good afternoon, Lord Ciel," and later "Good evening, Lord Ciel." It was a humble, respectful salutation, yet her eyes watched him expectantly, almost hungrily, each time he went on without a reply. It sent unpleasant tingles down his spine to know they were upon him. Ainslee went unknowing of this discomfort, although if asked, she would not have known herself why there was hunger in her eyes when she greeted him. She was merely a servant. That was all.

Or was there more?

Ainslee paused in her work again to place a hand over her chest. There was no beat, but she knew something was in there. It _was._ Like a fragment of Vincent Phantomhive.

It was not unusual for Sebastian to glide silently through the halls after dark, long after his master and the other servants had passed into the ethereal world of dreams. His footsteps were felt more than heard, and the shuddering dance of a set of candles leapt from his gloved hand to invade the dark hallway, the black shadows leaping back indignantly; although he did not need the light, Sebastian was faithfully a "mere butler," even when no one was there to see him so. A kind of velvety silence was layered thickly over the mansion so that each small sound—the building creaking, the wind outside, the tap of a branch against a window—was both muffled and magnified until it all sifted into a dull hum. It could be said, essentially, that every house has its own particular brand of this low orchestra of faint noise such that any occupant of said house could pick out a sound that does not belong in the composition. It was this kind of disturbance that made Sebastian stop and turn to stare piercingly over his shoulder at something far down another hall and up one floor.

_Tap. Whirr. Tap. Whirr. Tap. Whirr._

Murmurs. Glass eyes rolling in porcelain sockets.

Silence.

And then: _Tap. Whirr. Tap. Whirr. Tap._

One hall and a flight of stairs later, the candles' sharp light cut into a sharp feminine silhouette. Ainslee was still, too still even for death, because it was as though life had never existed in her to begin with and she was, after all, an empty doll. Sebastian held the candlestick up to her face, noting how the light reflected angularly off of her glass eyes, as well as how it made the crack running down her cheek even darker and more prominent, before addressing her. There was something else reflected there, too—something that, although she was generally expressionless, was clear and recognizable, a strange variety of dread and vulnerability.

"Miss Oakheart?"

No answer.

"Miss Oakheart, what are you doing here so late?"

One of her lips twitched, just a whisper of a movement.

"Miss Oakheart."

The rest of her body remained absolutely motionless, but her lips fluttered again and a faint sound slipped from them. Leaning closer, Sebastian could make out further murmurs escaping her carefully sculpted mouth. Only a few scattered words were audible, even to his sharp ears, words like "help" and "no" and "don't…us." Sebastian caught the barest scent of something he knew well, very well—so well the ghost of its flavor teased his tongue. He pulled back.

"Strange," he remarked, although Ainslee gave no sign that she heard him. "How strange that a doll has a soul."

And the key in her back spun slowly as she whispered, "Save us."

_Please,_ Ciel Phantomhive begged silently of the higher power he did not believe in, _please get it through her head that I am not my father._

He was ignored. Ainslee Oakheart remained standing in her soldier-straight, prim and proper posture just inside the bathroom door, steel blue eyes holding him with the calm expectancy that neither of them understood. Sebastian, straightening from the side of the bathtub, where his young liege was slick with soap and water, hid a grin of amusement behind mock concern.

"Miss Oakheart, I'm afraid the young master does not require your presence as you say his father did." Ciel heard the laughter in his voice and shot his butler a scathing glare, which was ignored as Sebastian continued, "you may wait outside if you so desire."

Again came the sour, unfamiliar feeling that twisted Ainslee's proverbial stomach as the butler dismissed her. Why did she dislike him so much when he took his place at her—_their—_master's side? Never had she experienced such distaste when Mr. Tanaka had carried out his duty. But then, Mr. Tanaka had never brushed her off for Vincent Phantomhive.

Pushing the feeling aside, Ainslee curtsied elaborately and said, "I understand. Enjoy your bath, Lord Ciel."

As she turned away, Ciel started to settle back into the bubble bath but paused as his gaze landed on the clock key jutting from her shoulder blade. It was not turning, but something occurred to him and he suddenly stood up in a flurry of startled splashes.

"Wait."

Ainslee stopped and turned her head, her eyebrows raised slightly in silent inquiry and hand still on the doorknob; she did not seem fazed by his bareness and her eyes remained steadily on his face, even as Sebastian wrapped a towel around his shoulders. Stepping out of the tub, Ciel approached her with light slaps of wet feet on tile. His face, although youthful, emanated the resolved power of a master, and Ainslee found herself strangely entranced by it. His slick fingers wrapped around the key and pulled.

A metallic _click_ echoed between the marble walls of the bathroom as the key came out, ringing decisively in the pale shell of Ciel's ear. Ainslee was still. Both Sebastian and Ciel stood as still as she was for a moment with bated breath, and for a moment, relief pooled in Ciel's consciousness. Then she spoke.

"Is something wrong, Lord Ciel?"

His face fell briefly, but he quickly collected himself and turned away. "It's nothing."

Her eyes flicked to the key in his hand and then to his face, and then she left.

As she stood silently outside the door, Ainslee glanced down and lifted the hem of her skirt slightly to reveal a spider's-thread fissure creeping from her right knee up to the midsection of her thigh. It was a souvenir from crawling on hands and knees to clean the floor. The knees of her silk stockings were also looking a little ragged. Pondering the damage, Ainslee let the edge of the skirt drop.

"Silk and crafted porcelain: forty-two pounds." Her voice was clear, but no one heard. No one _was_ there to hear like Vincent Phantomhive.


End file.
